Allies
by Firebirdie
Summary: Lana doesn't like titles, but it's hard to believe that she isn't the real commander here.


**A/N:** Some thinky thoughts about who's really calling the shots in KotFE, in ficlet form. I adore Lana, but I'm not sure how to feel about how she's the one with all the agency, acting rather than reacting, while the PC—supposedly the protagonist—is just kind of along for the ride.

 **Allies**

 **o.O.o**

The cantina is alive with workmen, spacers, soldiers, Jedi, and Sith—all getting along more or less smoothly, beginning to mingle as alcohol and excitement burn through their inclination to remain amongst their own. All in all, a most satisfying outcome to the day's efforts.

Lana was quite gratified when their illustrious Commander's address to the Alliance went over so well, and when he actually showed up for the celebration this evening. But an hour into the event, having fielded greetings and congratulations and one or two fervent loyalty oaths, Evren has hidden himself in a badly-lit corner, watching the festivities but not participating. He looks as if he's trying to melt into the wall, arms folded, head bowed, leaning hard against the stone with the expression of a man who'd rather be anywhere else.

Lana sighs and picks her way over to him. "If you want to retreat for the night, you needn't remain," she says. "I suspect Koth and Theron are too drunk to care overmuch, anyway."

He looks at her, and there's a darkness in his eyes, the Force practically spitting sparks as whatever he's holding back threatens to explode. "What are we doing here, Lana?" he asks.

She raises an eyebrow. "Existentially, or strategically?"

Evren doesn't laugh. Lana sighs. "If you mean 'why are we on Odessen,' the answer should be obvious. We need allies—here they are. I would have thought you'd be all for it."

"No, it's not that." Evren's gaze drops to the floor. "Lana, I'm not a commander. I'm a blunt instrument. Why am I ostensibly leading these people?"

"You're far more than that," she says. "You give them hope. They believe in you, in your cause."

"That's not what I meant, damn it." He meets her gaze again, scowling. "It's not my cause. It's yours. Your rescue, your contacts, your allies, your Alliance, your plan. I am your weapon, and though you're wielding me more skillfully and kindly than most, it doesn't change the fact that _you are using me_. Where is this going?"

". . . You think so little of yourself. Haven't you noticed that these people aren't here for me? They're here for—"

"For the Outlander. The man who killed Zakuul's beloved Emperor." He laughs, bitter. "Did a bang-up job of that, didn't I. And yet the Zakuulan defectors seem to think following me is better than following Arcann? I stabbed Valkorion through the heart, practically handed the brat the Eternal Throne! Why follow me, if Arcann is so terrible? What have you been telling them?"

"I told them that you are skilled, and powerful, and relentless," Lana says calmly. "I told them that you are our best hope of defeating Arcann, and that you are not the monster he claims you are. That you'll fight against him for what he did to you, and for what he's done to your home."

"Ha. They're not loyal to me. They're loyal to the mirage you made of me." He tilts his head to the side. "Interesting, how for all my titles and reputation and apparent power, you're still the one setting our course."

Lana shrugs. "I have no desire to rule myself. Far better to stand behind the one who does."

"Funny," Evren says. "I don't particularly want to rule either."

"You won't abandon this Alliance." Of that, she is certain. It's not in his nature to _stop fighting_. Not when there's so much at stake.

"No. I'll uphold your little charade. But next time you want a figurehead for your coalition, at least do me the courtesy of asking first." He uncoils, stepping out of the gloomy alcove and leaning in towards her. "And I expect a bit of reciprocity in this arrangement. Find a way to get Vitiate out of my head, or better yet, burn him out of existence. Find Vette and Jaesa. Figure out where the Fleet came from, what in hell's name the Gravestone was doing in that swamp, why there's a damn monolith in its underbelly. Don't just send me out to destroy the enemy and inspire the troops. _Talk to me_ , Lana."

". . . I'll keep you apprised of any further developments," she says neutrally.

Evren smiles thinly. "Of course." He brushes past her, weaves across the cantina floor, and vanishes from sight.

 **o.O.o**

 _end_


End file.
